The Weaver
by Stialyna
Summary: There's a figure out there...one who wields our lives as stories. What does this figure see? What does it do with our stories, and how can they just sit back and watch the destruction happen, as if it was nothing...


_**AN: **_This is an original piece of mine. I've lost my muse for my other stories and ended up thinking about this short plot. Let me know what you think of it, even if it is to tell me it's boring. :)

* * *

_**The Weaver**_

In and out. A welcome harsh figure sat on a small stool and was dwarfed by a loom. As the tapestry lengthened - showing the beginnings of an image - so did the colour of the threads change with it, bringing forth light and shadowed grey into the art. Nimble fingers plucked the taught white strings like those of a harp. As threads were interlaced among one another, a resounding cacophony of music wafted into _the_ weaver's mind, guiding the fluid hands to which the threads fell into place, similar to the grace of the leaves of autumn.

* * *

Blood rained down amongst the fallen, and the earth drank it deeply - relieving its thirst. Children whose cowering forms laid prostrate beneath their mother's corpse, had their innocence seeped from them as it stole away down into the riverbed beside the village. Survivors of whom reigned victorious over their attackers threw their crimson sheathed swords, as the silent screams tore through their throats, exclaiming their agony of losing those they loved.

Their neighbouring enemy slaughtered most of them and pillaged all they owned before they left, leaving a select few to finish those they thought were too weak to fight.

They thought wrong.

The remaining abled fighters of the village, had grabbed their defensive weapons they used only for the utmost of times...but it had been too late. By that time, all those that were vulnerable; their children, their wives and their elders, had been stolen of their last breaths as a thief would at night. The survivors were now left alone and without a true home.

* * *

The image rippled and formed on the woven canvas, as tendrils of threads appeared in _the_ weaver's hands. A scene of bloodshed and sullen tight-lipped faces mirrored back towards the weaver. Crows circling the premises, ingrained in the fabric.

Another edge was forming, lashing at the entity. Beauty that resided there was marred by time. Sorrow encasing joy - any hint of happiness repressed by all the wrongs that exists - as the life threads volt-faced, so that miniscule slits appeared in the discontinuous weft, and detangled from the ones that was continued to be woven away from red.

At this, the hands stilled for just a moment, resisting against the unseen force that made it weave continuously. However, not enough to be noticed by the untrained eye.

Its eyes show much great injuries to which its body challenged its open soul. Unbridled with peace were its eyes, yet the body of the ever changing weaver's appearance stayed almost stoic – as if forever trapped in halcyon times.

_The_ weaver decided to lighten the grief during the brief pregnant pause. Defying the questionable ubiquitous force, _the_ weaver began to move its hands nearer, thus two threads closer together until it was no longer connected by just nodes but each other.

* * *

Laughter will be heard by the many occupants of the tavern. Alchy will be distributed amongst both genders of the wedding contingent, as they mill and frolic in celebration.

"To Rick and Jen!" A stoutly man would salute his toast. His choice of alcohol spilling in the process.

Without a care, those who will dance and those in loud solitude, will raise their arms in agreement – adding to the mass of beverage already spilt on the floor. In the midst of busy silhouettes, two new gold bands - sparkling in the dim light of two joined hands - will be seen.

In another setting, pitter-patters of small droplets, would act as missiles against an impenetrable translucent matter. Peering past it, a homely dwelling will be lightened by a warm lapping fire, as a girl of no more than six winters, plays on.

A languid stature, lithe but a view of experience in military combat, will walk adorned with medals of valour towards the home. Beating sounds of rubber meeting concrete pavement, will echo in tandem to the precipitation like a countdown.

Not hesitating for a knock on the door, the little girl will open it and sneak a glance at the male figure, before letting a squeal of, "Daddy!"

A duffel bag would be dropped in response and without a thought of the rain, the girl will run to the father who in embracing his young daughter would swirl her around. Appearing outwardly from both figures, will be a jovial aura; which would increase as a shocked womanly figure shows up at the open door.

"You're home! Tell me I'm not dreaming…they told me you were gone, Joseph…" The woman stifling her gasp, as tears appearing in Joseph's eyes during a brief contact between the two, happens.

"I'm here. I'm really here, Kara. I – _oof_."

Kara would then entrap both him and their child with arms of steel. The festivities of the reunited family continuing on for days after, will introduce the neighbourhood to the tinkling tittering of a six year old girl, playing with her father that they had not seen in months. Kara in the following years would then proceed to thank whoever the magnanimous figure was, who brought back her family together.

* * *

Laughter drifting from both futures, played in _the_ weaver's ears as it wove. The major notes of lilting tones, made all other shadowed times bearable. Mettle within the harsh figure shone out and the coloured threads it held morphed into glorious gold. In the world below, the sun rose into sparkling rays of peace.

Seizing the end of the finished tapestry, was time, who enveloped the edges in tendrils of mist- making it into reality. Enticed by the lolling ceaseless motions, _the_ weaver continued on with its occupation, unbeknownst to the dissipating material.

In and out. Timeless eyes, ancient eyes, stranded to that one place (a pocket where creation occurred) watched on. Nimble fingers expertly intertwined threads as power hummed into the calls of ravens which sounded like a ringing symphony. The cycle repeated…

In.

Out.


End file.
